


Music of the Night

by Lalaith_Raina (Mirtathor)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Implied Torture, Imprisonment, M/M, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:41:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirtathor/pseuds/Lalaith_Raina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron has been watching Maglor for years untold, wanting him, desiring him, and certain he sees the signs of similar lust returned. When he finally has his minstrel to himself, his fantasy becomes a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music of the Night

My strongest memory of him is from a gathering of his family for some mundane reason. The wind was blowing through the trees, rustling leaves and hair and clothes in a soft cacophony that muddied the background of the day. He sat in brilliant robes of silk, the deepest of reds that in the light reflected the highlights in his dark hair. His family sat around him, obstructing my view infuriatingly as I slipped from shadow to shadow in the forest around them.

I recall scowling impatiently at how I had to slither around leaves and trees to get him better in my view, that treasure greater than anything else his father has ever made. He was perched upon a fountain's base, more perfect than the sculptures behind him and more fluid in his motions than the noisy, irksome water. So soft, no hard lines of corded muscles from forges or hunts that his brothers so favored, he was lovely and fair and timid as he smiled softly at the antics of his relations.

They called to him, begged from him a song, and he was so impish in how he smirked and rolled his pale eyes and laughed -- that laugh, even a chuckle was as a song that moved over its chords -- and bent over his lovely harp. It was always impeccably polished and how I have wished I could watch him care for it like a lover, massaging its every curve and caressing oils into its flesh. He bent his head to the side and it seemed that he was listening to the heavens for whispered inspiration and to his harp for its desires before he began.

The melody started suddenly, and yet it sounded like it had always been there, like it was the birds given strings and the ocean given voice, the wind given fingers and the hearts of elves given song. Rolling notes tumbled over the landscape and everyone was rooted; I knew because I, too, felt like I couldn't have moved had I wished to, as though the ability to act had been sucked from me, like he himself had sucked it out with an impish smirk and a twinkle in his eyes.

He looked around the gathering with a curl to his lips, catching gazes as he sang softly and yet it carried like the voice of a Maia -- could it be he had stolen that gift? Was it even possible? Could he actually use the voices that he stole from his audience? But surely that wasn't it, for not even I could have sung so beautifully, none of us could, but his voice was glorious beyond telling. It was both beautiful and sinful, how he gazed into his family's eyes. Was it fair to so devilishly gaze into a brother's soul, or an uncle's? And why, I wonder, would he not turn his gaze towards this forest, towards where I stood watching and worshipping him, so that I might feel their intensity myself. The things I would do, nay, the promises that I would have sworn for just a minute of those eyes seeking my own. And those fingers, what would they feel like on my skin instead of that harp? Would they move just as smoothly over my throat as they did over those strings?

I watched him for longer than he would ever know, longer than I will ever tell, from those shadows. For years uncounted I admired him, his every part, his very soul. The emotion that his presence inspired in me -- no words could bring forth feeling like his eyes could, like his songs. No speeches from my lord and mentor, no whispers in the dark, no promise of power could ever stir me the way that those notes could. I felt more feelings than I believed existed when I was in his presence.

My lord, of course, knew. He knows everything, so much more than his brother could ever comprehend. He saw my longings, and he promised me what I desired most: that son of Fëanor for my loyal service. All it took was a promise, an oath, and one was sworn to me in turn; there was no question. There was no doubt. I swore it, and I did my master's every bidding, and I finally learned patience. Patience, because I now knew that what I desired would be mine, if only I waited. And so I learned how to wait.

I waited for him to get what he desired, and I waited for us to flee. I waited as we settled, and built up an army and a fortress, and I waited as war was waged. I waited while the father fell, while the eldest visited, while he was saved, I waited. So long did I wait. Wars were waged, battles fought, victories were savored and defeats were punished as I grew impatient, but my waiting came to be worth the price. My master fell, and briefly I considered that he had failed me, until the eldest fell as well.

He alone was left.

It is easy to overwhelm an elf who is alone, weary, tired of the world, whose hands are bandaged and whose life is exhausted. My servants brought him to me as a guest, and he is beautiful to me. My greatest treasure. Greater than any precious jewels.

He has his harp with him still, and it is beautiful as ever. Fascinating, really, when his hands are so marred and his body so broken that he still tends to his precious instrument. The wood is smooth and soft, well-oiled. In some places it has been damaged by swords, chips missing, but they have been sanded around to soften them. Some of the gems are a bit crooked, and as I peer closer I realize that they are not originals but replacements, perhaps set by his recently-lost brother.

"Play," I request, stepping before him and thrusting the harp into his hands. It does not do to demand -- I recall well that when his audience made a demand, they would be laughed at gently and scolded in soft tones for not respecting the muse. I would not make that same childish mistake; I would show a mask of respect to my muse, my beautiful songbird, and I would ask politely.

He looks at me with blank eyes, pale and grey like the stormy sky over the sea. They are empty, though, and it feels wrong, like a painting of his eyes by a clumsy hand. Flat, false, perverted. "I feel no music here," he responds, and even his voice is off. Too hollow, too blank.

In all of his time here he has been stubbornly silent, sitting in his chamber -- he has my old chamber, cleaned and organized and settled just for him -- and refusing food or conversation. He sits, day in and out, looking at his hands and ignoring the things I set before him. At first I believed he was adjusting, hurt and healing. But no -- I can see now that he is challenging me to his own game. He is here now, but not the part of him I want. His flesh does not interest me, fair as it is, it is his voice, his soul, and he has closed them away within that prison. A taunt to me: I must draw him out.

"You are the music," I purr, lowering myself to his level. I will appeal to his vanity, his pride, then. "I had none, but now, I shall have it all."

But his gaze stays blank, his hands still. "I cannot make something from nothing. I am not a tool to create song, I am only a vessel to deliver it."

I do not know how to respond to that. I look around, and consider what has inspired him in the past. Not honeyed words, it was not his father's speeches or my master's whispers...

"Your brother was strong like you," I compliment. "But his spirit was simple. Jewels and fight and protest. He did not know how to inspire as you do. He was not nearly as good of a prize. It was I who suggested it, you know, hanging him out there like that. He could only inspire when he was weak. But you- you inspire with your strength. I had hoped it would be you who came to collect him."

And there it is, the emotion I sought. My story sparks something, cracks open a door, smashes through a window and let his soul glint in his steel gaze. He stares upon me no longer like a doll but like the Fëanorian he is, proud and vengeful and passionate. But how lovely he is, his lips twitching if I watch them close enough. I allow myself the pleasure of a touch, and he does not recoil as I feel those chapped lips tense beneath the pad of my finger. It is a kiss, I realize, a pursing of strong lips against my skin. I smile as he holds my gaze, and finally I know what it is to feel him see only me, know only me. It is more sinful, more decadent, more exquisite than I had ever expected. He is everything I wanted, and he is mine.

"Sing for me," I command softly.

In the silence of the room I can hear his deep, slow breath, the long exhale. I can see his chest rise and fall, feel the air around us shift. Still I stare at him, watching and waiting, and the thrill of it is nearly enough to unravel me, the expectation of that music and beauty, of a lover's caress after so long of unpaid patience.

The first note fills the entire space. I suck in a breath and hold it, not wanting to interrupt the air and blow out his fuse. But he stops there in a bold display, tightening the strings of his harp, refusing to allow it to be out of tune. Our game only heightens as I smile slow, the expression feeling strange but intimate as his eyes meet mine again. I smile for him, knowing he pauses to make my music perfect.

Again he plucks the string and then continues. Slow, gentle notes that bounce off of one another and encircle themselves, taunting each note to come faster than the last, daring more strings to join into the play, hanging on one note and twirling ahead to create a counter-melody.

The song trickles through the room like water, soft and echoing and all-encompassing, surrounding and weaving us together in a hidden paradise that only we can enjoy, only we can surrender ourselves to. Gentle and light, as I imagine his touches would feel, his hands drift over the strings, and his eyes stay focused on mine. This must be what it is to love, gazing into another's soul so ferociously as he gazes into mine, baring himself as he does now with his music. It sounds nearly sad with its low melody overwhelming the higher countermelody, but then it picks up again and his hands move in wider arcs, caressing more, and it is nearly perfect.

I watch those fingers as they bend and straighten, as they move fluidly up and down and across, and I want them on me. I want to touch him. Will he sing under my touch the way that his harp sings under his touch? I cannot help my curiosity, so I try, reaching out to touch his cheek with the back of my fingers. His skin feels hot, the flush of emotion making them pink and smolder beneath the coolness of my own flesh. His eyes still bore into mine in a dangerous edge of passion, and for a moment I am sure he will throw the wood aside to grab me, but he reigns that lust into check and settles for merely letting his eyes speak for him, his music his words. My eyes are drawn to his chest, rising and falling more swiftly, his breaths coming dangerously now, and I want to feel them against me. I move closer, leaning over his harp as the chords come faster and louder, his eyes now forced to switch from my left to my right because we are too close. The spark nearly ignites me as I tilt my head and feel his breath against my lips. His own twitch and pull and I still, waiting, urging him to form the words he wants to say, to claim me the way I can see he wants to, to let his feelings overwhelm him as they overwhelm me. For too long has he been too calm, and I want him to break. For me, against me, around me.

Instead he turns his head, breaking our connection. I love when he plays hard to get like this, just as he did for his brothers all those years ago, perched on a fountain and rolling his beautiful eyes and laughing at them, demanding they respect him as he deserves. And now he toys with me, lets me see his playful side, and I know he feels the things I feel, the same desire burning through my veins burns through his. I let my hand trail down to his throat, feeling his pulse hammering there beneath my palm, and drag my tongue over his cheek. His sweat tastes salty and bitter and just as I imagined he would taste in my dreams.

His music falters, chords colliding in a clash that makes both of us flinch. But still he stays there, unmoving except the steel eye that darts over to catch my gaze again, a silent plea in them. He is everything I knew, so beautiful in his desire and his pride, wanting it but not allowing himself to show such weakness and forbidden desire.

"Sing," I whisper. "Sing to me, for me. I want your voice," I hiss as I tighten my grip on that thin throat, stronger than it used to be, muscles and tendons tightening and tensing beneath my grip. "Tell me what you feel."

He is trembling and tense in his struggle to contain his need, and I know exactly how he feels without him needing to speak at all. I am sure my own eyes reflect his lust, my own heart races to catch his in a tangle of veins. I feel as he swallows in my grasp and that simple act is so pointedly sensual that I am nearly undone before his tongue darts out to playfully catch my eye, wetting those dry lips in preparation.

The music begins again, his voice soft against my palm, the pace racing like his blood pulsing through the veins under the pads of my fingers. It's been a long time since I have listened to such melodious words, soft rolling purrs about regret and being too late. It reminds me of a lover whispering soft words beneath the sound of rain, soft and easily missed, shy of being overheard in a public area. Shy of our new relationship. He plays hard to get, my songbird, staring at me in hard challenge as he sings his tune of lost loves and doom of curses, and I understand his heart. He will not give in so easily, my Noldorin lover, he will not so easily fall into my arms. Never has he easily given himself, not to the quest of his father or the charges of his siblings, and certainly never had I seen him give his body to the many like myself who looked at him in endless longing.

I understand what he needs, perhaps more than he does. He has the same stubborn trait of his eldest brother, he portrayed it so elegantly for me earlier. He will not perform unless taunted into it; he likes things rough. I can oblige.

"Keep singing," I whisper as I lean in, tracing the shell of his delicate ear with my tongue. It is warm even beneath the heat of my mouth, and I cannot resist the temptation to lightly grasp the tip between my teeth as I close my eyes and listen. He is still singing, as I ordered, my obedient little toy, and I wait for the familiar strange rattle beneath my palm of a sharp inhale before focusing my mind.

I know that he will appreciate more than his brother the power that words can command. The power his voice commands, the enthralling, captivating awe of his tongue, only inspires my own voice. But it is not in song that I demonstrate my whispered words against his ear, it is in my palm. My grasp around his throat tightens and I feel him tense right as the charge flows into him, our flesh united by the sparks and energy joining them. He screams, his word cut off in surprise at my move and it is the most beautiful sound he has made yet; it is him, unmasked. Genuine, no time to put up a shield or think through, his voice is rich and sharp and pure, the perfect complement to the lightning singing his nerves, more wondrous than any crack of thunder. As the current fades so does his voice, a perfect musician following my cues like the baton of a conductor. He moans, ragged and broken, and I return the sound against his ear.

His thrashing caused me to bite down and I lap now at the shallow wound, the teasing little prick of blood that feels like hot oil on my tongue. I trace my fingers up the column of his throat to slip a finger into his mouth, lips invitingly parted to me as he pants and shivers like a spent lover. I wonder how that tongue would feel and sate my curiosity, stroking the tip. It curls back playfully and I follow, chuckling as he finally closes his mouth to bite on my finger sharply. It is a delicious promise and I rise slightly, my finger brushing his tongue again as I try to imitate that delicious burn of his blood for him, my finger scorching as I brush against him.

He bites down harder and cries out with a beautiful, sharp grunt, eyes wide as they meet mine, and in that moment I realize I am lost to him, and he is lost to me. The shimmer of his gaze reflects my equally unbound emotions and the whimper in his throat is all the more invitation that I need. My patience has finally paid off.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as part of an International Day of Slash challenge for "Valanyonnen", with inspiration from "Rastapoodle" courtesy of his song challenges: "A Boy Brushed Red Living in the Black and White" by Underoath, and "Beautiful Mind on Strings and Piano".


End file.
